i seek to roam the streets in blessed solitude.
during which i shall engulf my thoughts with reflection.
let no one but i be audience to this melancholy.
nor witness such cruel selection.


yet environs forbid exclusive moons.
to occupation, i am enslaved.
seldom are my endeavours to hear my maroon girl's croons.
as it is with that blue-dashed fiend.


my previous writings, as i recall, belong to punk.
oh, the shame.
i guess this is what maturity looks like.


we sat and watched the sun go down
then picked a star before we lost the moon
youth is wasted on the young
before you know, its come and gone
too soon.

perfection at 5:58 PM